


One Day a Year

by TwilightToMidnight



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Divorce, Draco has an idea, F/M, Fluff, Ginny has eyes, Hermione has no idea, Marriage, Narcissa interferes, Smut, Valentine's Day, Valentine's Day Fluff, draco pining, hermione gets drunk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-15 01:28:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29428143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TwilightToMidnight/pseuds/TwilightToMidnight
Summary: The telling of how Hermione Granger manages to spend every Valentine's day with Draco Malfoy despite him being a generally sarcastic and unpleasant sort of fellow with inscrutable intentions.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Comments: 24
Kudos: 342





	One Day a Year

**Author's Note:**

> For all my Dramione shippers out there weathering a lockdown-esque Valentine's like I am, remember that there are plenty more glorious days to come!

_Valentine’s day 2003_

“Ron proposed!” Hermione weaved through the space of empty cubicles towards the sole desk light in their darkened department.

A blond head shot up, faint shadows beneath the grey eyes, testament to a gruelling eighteen hours of unending paperwork. Hermione having only been manhandled out of the office a mere three hours prior so she wouldn’t be late for her Valentine’s dinner.

Nonetheless, she had arrived at the fancy Diagon Alley restaurant a little less put together than her fellow patrons.

“What?” His voice was neutral and oddly loud in the abandoned office. “What did Weasley do?”

Hermione dragged a chair up to his cubicle as he turned to face her. He dropped his quill unceremoniously into the inkwell as his eyes flicked to her restless hands, gesturing randomly about in her glee.

“Ron proposed!” Hermione couldn’t stop the smile which split her face, the euphoria pulled her lips wide, uncooperative even when she consciously tried to school her expression in the face of his complete and utter lack of reaction.

“How original of Weasley.” Hermione watched him lean forward to inspect the small oval cut diamond. “Let me guess, you found it embedded in some ice-cream or baked into a slice of pie?”

A little of her glee gave way to irritation. _Prat._ “It was in my crème brulee and it was really romantic, alright? That was the dessert I shared with him on our first proper date! It’s really sweet of him to remember that.” Her fist tightened and drew away from his judgemental gaze.

“Granger.” He leaned back in his seat, slouched, an ankle crossing lazily over the other. “You order crème brulee any opportunity you get, the waiter at the corner café knows you like that stuff.” His lips thinned as he eyed her. “Why are you here telling me this anyway? Shouldn’t you and the Weasel be back at his hovel trying to expand the Weaselby clan?”

Hermione felt a burn start in her cheeks. “Ron got called away to a case.”

Draco hummed. “So Weasley’s spending a romantic Valentine’s evening with Potter is he? Well, can’t say I’m surprised.” He shot a mischievous glance at her. “Hope you’re ready to play second string to their epic romance.”

Hermione snorted, now well used to Draco’s remarkably insulting sense of humour. “Why do you think they called us the Golden Trio in school?”

Draco drew back with a dramatic gasp, his expression as scandalised as a gossipy aunt. “I knew the rumours were true!”

Hermione swatted him, standing as he stood and shifting away as he pulled on his coat in that unbearable prattish manner which had copped her mouthfuls of fine English wool or buttery Italian leather on more than one occasion since they had been partners.

“Well. Since Weasley has failed to keep you entertained for the evening, allow me to _fill_ that empty space.” He shot her an exaggerated wink.

Hermione sneered at him, an expression learnt from the master, even as she felt heat flood her cheeks. “Shouldn’t you be trying to _fill_ Astoria’s space on this fine winter evening? She must be waiting for you somewhere in a slip of green satin.”

“Silk.” He corrected as he straightened his collar. “Satin is for plebeians like Weasleys.” A firm arm encircled her and turned her towards the lifts. “Besides, my partner just got abandoned on Valentine’s after a thoroughly uninspiring marriage proposal; I shall consider it my duty to get her properly sloshed in the name of commiseration.”

“Celebration.” She corrected.

“So you say but don’t forget, you’ll actually have to live with the Weasel."

Hermione woke with a panicked jolt the next morning, thankfully in her own bed, her hair wrapped around her neck and the taste of death on the back of her tongue. She had no recollection of how she got home but a quick inspection of her persons showed no obvious signs of foul play and she had somehow gotten into her pajamas relatively unscathed, barring the obvious error of her shirt being back to front.

She had just enough time to clean herself up, grab a slice of toast and nearly burn half her mouth with a scalding sip of coffee. She nearly spat out her second sip as she read the front page headline of _The Prophet._

_MALFOY & GREENGRASS SPLIT!_

_What the witnesses say really happened._

The eye catching headline was followed by large moving photo of Draco shouldering away a cameraman and just barely discernible in the grainy reproduction, Hermione’s little beaded bag, hanging from his left hand.

She dropped her toast and stormed through the Floo to the Ministry. When she arrived in the Unspeakable department offices, his cubicle was frustratingly empty, parchments and quill exactly where he had left it the night before.

It would be that way for the next three weeks before he returned, tight lipped with his temper at hair trigger. Hermione knew better than to ask any unnecessary questions.

_Valentine’s day 2004_

Even sulking and hunched, Hermione thought Draco scrubbed up well. Robes discarded across the green brocade sofa, just lounging in his waistcoat and his white dress shirt untucked, he looked like someone had deliberately styled him that way for a Vogue cover.

“Must you do this?” He huffed at her, “I mean, could you be any more cliched? Getting married on Valentine’s day. Honestly, so plebeian –”

“Is ‘plebeian’ your favourite word, Malfoy? Or is it just because you can’t think of anything more creative?” Hermione rolled her eyes to the ceiling, fighting the urge to give him a good smack. “Anyway, will you get out? This is the bridal chamber, as in the room in which the bride gets ready before the ceremony, do you have to be here? Can’t you go sit with the other guests?”

“No,” his reflection appeared next to hers in the mirror, “there is a Cacophony of Weasley’s in that crowd that they’d surely lynch me before the ceremony even starts.”

Bemusement twisted her lips. “Really, Draco. A Cacophony of Weasley’s?”

His expression was cool and unchanged. “Yes a cacophony. Like a Murder of Crows or a Skulk of Foxes…hence –”

The room door cracked open and Mrs Granger slipped through, hands clasped together, a watery glint in her eyes. “Oh, Draco, you look so handsome!”

“Mum!” Hermione choked back a laugh. “Really? Now? Could you possibly spare a compliment for you only child who is in a wedding gown, about to be married?”

Jean Granger’s hands waved airily. “I’ve been to all the fittings with you honey; Draco on the other hand…” She reached to stroke Draco’s waistcoat.

Hermione batted her mother’s hands away. “Mum. Concentrate. Have you seen Ron yet? How does he look?”

Jean shot her daughter a quelling look. “As green as his robes. Clashes horribly with his hair really.”

Draco barked out a harsh laugh behind her. “Your mum has better taste than you do, Granger.”

Hermione firmed her lips to suppress the smile which tugged at their edges. “Get out, Malfoy. Go take you seat before George curses it.”

“He probably already has so no point in rushing.”

Jean cuts through their to and fro. “Off you go, dear.” She stepped past Draco to grab his robes. “Last minute mother-daughter time.”

Robes in hand, Draco didn’t budge. “I’ve always wanted to be part of mother-daughter time.”

“You most certainly have not.” Hermione crossed her arms over her chest, nearly catching the lace of her sleeves on her ring. “Seriously Malfoy, out! I’ll see you after.”

Wearing an expression of mulish petulance, he turned and left them alone, closing the door with a childish thud.

“Goodness. He’s quite attached to you isn’t he?” Jean smoothed a wrinkle from the lace of Hermione’s dress. “Are you sure – ”

Hermione giggled, a sound Jean had rarely heard since her childhood. “Mum, seriously. I thought you liked Ron?”

Her mother surveyed her with a fond look, “I do, I do. He’s a sweet boy and you two have been through thick and thin together, haven’t you? How could a mother object to that?” She surveyed the fussy frills of the wedding robes. “His mother on the other hand…”

Hermione groaned, loathe to revisit that old argument. “Mum, it’s Weasley tradition to pass down the wedding robes and it’s not like I care what I’m wearing.”

“You said none of the other Weasley brides had to wear this monstrosity. Not even her own daughter, Ginny, so why do you have to?” Jean pinched the three tiers of white lace on her collar, nose wrinkled in disdain.

“All the more reason I should wear it for Molly then.” Hermione sensed that there was more to this conversation. “What do you actually want to say, mum? Out with it, before the ceremony starts.”

Jean fixed her with a firm gaze, one Hermione knew all too well from her childhood. “Are you sure about this?”

“This?” Hermione met her mother’s gaze, steady as her own. “I love him, mum.”

“You two haven’t even lived together.”

“Mum,” Hermione smothered the feeling of rising heat in her throat. “We talked about this, it’s really not done in the wizarding world, not before marriage anyway.” She brushed her fingers over her mothers, steadying herself. “I’ve known Ron since we were kids, I know everything I need to know about him.”

“It’s not the same as living with the man.” Jean Granger persisted; Hermione smiled at the familiar stubbornness which often forbade her sweets after dinner as a child.

“Would it make you feel better if I told you that Ron’s stayed over a few weekends with me? And we had a nice little holiday in Ireland together last summer?” She wrapped her arms around her mother’s trim waist, smoothing the navy blue dress with a hint of childhood nostalgia.

Jean returned her embrace, sniffing quietly into her ear. “A little. But…”

Hermione laughed and pulled away, acutely aware of the wetness welling around her lashes. Jean pursed her lips but laughed with her, fanning away the tears lest Hermione smudge her makeup. “Alright. And I suppose your father does like that boy. The amount of time they spend tooling away in that shed of his, building models and what not, honestly, as if that should be a key consideration for a son-in-law.”

The air seemed to return to the room with the change in conversation and Henry Granger found them this way when he came to collect his daughter for the start of the ceremony.

As her parents escorted her down the aisle, Hermione’s eyes were riveted to that of her fiancé, soon-to-be husband Ron, in his olive green dress robes, euphoric as he recited his vows and then she hers. Her view of him blurred as the officiant declared them wizard and wife and tears touched her cheeks as he leant towards her for their first kiss as a married pair.

Cheers flooded her from all sides but it was drowned out by the roar in her own ears as their lips met and Hermione sighed into his lips all her wishes for their future together.

_Valentine’s Day 2005_

“Mrs Weasley, your 3 o’clock has arrived.” Martha’s voice rang through the intercom, a faint crackle of static as she paused. “Oh…umm…Ms. Granger, you’re 3 o’clock has arrived.”

Hermione quelled the bubble of anger, stabbing at the intercom button on her desk. “I don’t recall having a 3 o’clock.”

“He insists.” Came the instant return.

A creeping headache which had plagued her all day, now began to throb in her temples. She threw down her quill, splashing an ugly blotch of ink on her parchments. She could barely bring herself to care as she watched the stain set and dry. Massaging her temples, she buzzed her supposed appointment into the room.

Warily, she watched as a tall, sombre looking gentleman strode into the room. He helped himself to a seat opposite her without invitation and Hermione skipped the niceties of introduction and tea; she had little patience for niceties these days.

Expensive watch, perfectly tailored pinstripe suit, neatly trimmed salt and pepper hair.

Solicitor.

“What does Ronald want, Mr…?” She sounded harsh, even to her own ears.

The man opposite gave her a faint, thin lipped smile. “Everything, I imagine, Ms Granger.” He reached across her desk, depositing a gold embossed business card before her.

“Mr Feehan.” Hermione read the card, “why have you come to meet with me privately? Surely that is a breach in protocol for a solicitor representing my husband?”

Richard Feehan’s smile widened, sharp and surely terrifying to any courtroom clerks who dare stray across his path. “I have come to discuss you divorce from one, Mr Ronald Bilius Weasley, as you have already pointed out. You are however, incorrect in your assumption that I am representing your soon to be ex-husband.” He cleared a space on her desk and drew out a compact stack of files as well as an eagle quill with a razor sharp silver tip. “I have been retained to be your representative, Ms Granger.”

Hermione let out an irritated breath. “I can represent myself!”

“Mmm.” He eyed her, his gaze imparting deep scepticism, “brightest witch of your age, you may be, but you are entirely too emotional to adequately argue the case yourself.”

“It’s a divorce proceeding.” Hermione forced out through gritted teeth.

“Precisely.” He snapped back. “I can assure you, any decent divorce attorney worth his salt will be able to use that against you.”

Rebuked, Hermione sat back, straightening her shoulders, she changed tactic. “You can give Harry my thanks for going this far, but I can find a solicitor myself.”

Feehan set down his quill, “Ms Granger, I have been sent by Mr Malfoy. I will however, pass along you gratitude.”

Hermione blinked rapidly. “Draco?”

“Yes. Mr Malfoy the younger as it would impolite of me to call Lord Malfoy a Mr.” He shuffled a long stretch of parchment to the forefront of his stack. There were numerous numbered dot points upon it. He took up his quill and met her shocked gaze squarely. “Mr Malfoy has provided me with a list of wrongdoings by your husband, shall we review these for accuracy?”

Hermione stared at the list, filling what must have been 15 inches of a crisp scroll, in bewilderment. “Draco made that list?”

Feehan snorted uncharacteristically. “Yes. I understand there to be some enmity between Mr Malfoy and Mr Weasley so we really must fact check these points before we present them before the judge. Number 16 for example, simply says, ‘ _he’s an orange fucking weasel’_.

A definitive strike was crossed through the words immediately upon Hermione’s burst of laughter.

Feehan moved his quill to the first dot point. “One. Acting like a fucking man child.” He pinched the bridge of his nose, reading the statement drily. “Is Hermione your mum or what?”

A square of blank space appeared below the statement, his quill poised above it, ready for notations.

Hermione stared back at him, her mind running up against a wall. “What…what should I say to that?”

“Perhaps you could give me an example of his behaviour, Ms Granger. Does Mr Malfoy refer to actual infantile behaviour or is this a rhetorical statement?”

Hermione pushed away the image of her cradling a diaper wearing Ron with a pacifier. “Uh no…rhetorical…” She watched as the man opposite her started taking notes. “I suppose Draco is referring to when Ron quit his Auror job to go help out at George’s shop.”

“Without discussing it with you?” Feehan queried.

Hermione nodded. “We were trying to buy a house, so it was a big dip in our income.”

“Your collective income, how is it proportioned?”

“70% me, 30% him, I would say.”

Feehan nodded definitively. “Excellent.” He punctuated the statement with swift tick. “Two. Act like a pig, live in a sty.”

“I think he means that Ron never did any housework.” Hermione lost the fight to the smile which tugged her lips upwards. Her solicitor scrawled a brief note before briskly running his fingers down the length of the parchment, eyes dancing across the words.

“We’re going to need another hour. Please send a message to Ministry’s marriage, death and birth department to delay your hearing.”

Hermione scrawled out the note as Feehan moved onto the third point.

Later that day, as Hermione emerged from the divorce mediation proceedings, she watched a thoroughly infuriated Ron stomp away from the remnants of their marriage with some sense of relief. His utterly flustered solicitor inched out of the room after him, giving Feehan a wide birth as he dabbed the perspiration which dripped down his nose.

Giving her a shark-like smile, all teeth, Feehan inclined his head towards her. “I hope you were satisfied with our outcome, Ms Granger. Please keep me in mind should you require legal services in future.”

Hermione nodded agreeably and thanked him even as she spotted a tall figure striding towards them, long black Unspeakable robes billowing behind him like the drama queen he was.

Gleeful, he nodded to Feehan and stopped before her. “Well? How much fun did you have?”

“Draco honestly, could you not have discussed this with me beforehand?” She mock punched him in the shoulder.

Malfoy looked positively incandescent with petty joy. “Be honest, Granger, your Gryffindor pride would never have allowed you to accept external help. Besides, how much of a kick did you get out of Feehan telling Weasley he had a small dick and could last as long as a burning match?”

Hermione face started burning, cheeks instantly stung with prickly heat. “Oh merlin! Point 21. I told you that in confidence! And that was a gross representation of the my words!”

“If I recall correctly,” Draco mockingly rubbed his chin. “You said he had all the stamina of a burning match…snapped in half.”

“I did not!” She hid her face in her hands, stopping only to give him a few smacks when his raucous laughter started drawing stares from passers-by. “Merlin, you’re such an arse.”

Draco straightened, wiping tears from his eyes. “Come on, Granger. Let’s go get sloshed in celebration.”

“You mean commiseration.” Hermione settled happily into the crook of his arm.

“I know what I meant.” He shot back.

Weeks later, Hermione was clearing out the kitchen of her and Ron’s rental, wrapping dishes with old pages of the Prophet when a headline caught her eye.

_MALFOY & GREENGRASS Reunite!_

_Lady Greengrass drops hints of a winter wedding._

_Continued on Page 16._

The paper was dated the 16th of February, some time ago now. Hermione had had lunch and dinner with Malfoy dozens of time since then and he hadn’t uttered a peep about Astoria. A flicker of hurt sat heavy in the pit of her stomach…surely he considered her a close enough friend to share this detail with…at least Hermione had considered him a close friend for years already.

With measured movements, she tried to rewrap the teacup she had clasped in hand but the paper had somehow become inadequate, it would not sit right and was inadequate for its purpose. She balled it up, tossing it in the trash where it belonged.

_Valentine’s day 2006_

Hermione considered Ginny Weasley to be amongst the rarest of a category of women to ever exist on the face of the planet, what Hermione often viewed as effortless cool and unflustered; even 2 kids had not managed to ruffle her feathers.

What made Hermione admire her most though, was her utter and unwavering sense of loyalty towards someone she considered a friend and strangely enough, Draco Malfoy seemed to fall into that category.

“Just look at him.” Ginny muttered around a mouthful of a chicken drumstick, her other hand carefully guarding a plate piled high with what Hermione assumed was the rest of the fried chicken the Potters had arrived cradling. Harry sat next to her, watching on anxiously, an airplane sick bag clutched in one hand. “Damn.”

Hermione took a tentative sip of her ice tea, enjoying the tingle of lime and mint and the sweetness of the elderflower. She waved at Narcissa who was still greeting late arrivals to the Manor for the Valentine’s day garden party held within the immense dome of the Malfoy’s solarium.

“Hermione, are you looking?” Ginny waved the drumstick in her face.

“Looking at what, Ginny?” She ignored the pitying glance Harry shot at her.

The drumstick disappeared into Ginny’s mouth, emerging stripped of all flesh then carelessly discarded on the table. “At Draco _Snake in my pants_ Malfoy. That man is a tall drink of water, if ever I saw one!”

Hermione giggled, but deliberately turned her head the other way. She had seen him earlier, dressed casually, white button down, sleeves rolled up to show ropes of muscle and veins. Her mouth had involuntarily watered and she was ashamed of how long it had taken her to accept the drink he had held out to her.

Harry groaned, shoving his bangs off his forehead, the familiar lightening scar now faded and pale. “Sorry, Mione. Gin’s been saying these sorts of traumatising things since last week. Think she hit her head during the Quidditch game.”

“What hit me,” Ginny picked up a wing, sticking the whole thing in her mouth, “was the sight of Malfoy in his Quidditch gear sans shirt!”

Hermione hunched over her drink, glancing covertly around to see if their closest neighbouring tables were paying them any attention. “Gin, for Merlin’s sake, you’ve been playing pick-up games with the Slytherins for years, that can’t be the first time you seen him in a Quidditch uniform!”

“And he played at Hogwarts too!” Harry interjected, leaning close and keeping his voice low.

Ginny spat out the bones in her mouth. “Nuh uh! This was different!” She crooked a grease laden finger at them both, leaning in conspiratorially. “He forgot his Quidditch gear and had to borrow some from Theo and oh sweet mother of Merlin…”

Hermione’s mouth opened, letting out an audible puff of air. Draco was a head taller than Nott and quite broad across the shoulders since he switched to the Beater position on their Ministry Unspeakables department team.

Ginny was still rambling. “…and oh merlin, when he took a swing at the bludger, his shirt split clean down the middle; down the middle! So he dragged it off – Hermione, Hermione, you know that way that cute boys do with one hand, like straight over his head – and then just dropped it on the pitch and just kept playing. And then it started to rain, and we had to pause the game because McLaggen can’t get his hair wet or some shit and Draco with no shirt and the tightest slacks ever, all rain drenched, lands and swings his leg over the broom to dismount…and merlin, the view, the view! I was behind him and what I saw was an epiphany. Agnes – you know Agnes from accounts – was in front of him and she took one look and fainted. Like bam. Dead. Gone. Hit her head on the bleachers and everything. Wow, can you imagine?”

“Oh God.” Harry was starting to turn a faint green. “I don’t want to.”

Hermione was just astounded that Ginny seemed not have drawn breath at any time during that sentence. An Athlete’s lung capacity was truly a wonder.

Ginny took her silence for disbelief, “I’ll prove it to you.”

“What?” Hermione gaped as Ginny stood.

“What?” Harry asked faintly as he looked up from the sick bag he was struggling to hold open.

It was too late however, as Ginny was already heading towards Malfoy, his back to them as he conversed with Parkinson and Zabini. The red head presented herself in front of him, drawing his attention and seemingly making small talk as the Slytherins turned to engage her. Then, as clear as day, as if she were standing right next to their table, Hermione heard Ginny exclaim, “whoops, I dropped my drumstick!” before she glanced up expectantly at Draco.

There seemed to be a moment of bewildered confusion before Hermione observed Draco slowly bend and retrieve the wayward piece of chicken. In doing so, Hermione had a perfect view of dark grey wool slacks as they stretched over Draco Malfoy’s arse.

“Oh god.” Harry’s horrified gasp pulled her away. “I accidentally watched that. My eyes…Hermione, if you gouge them out now, it’s not too late. Here’s a spoon.”

Hermione laughed, swallowing back the flush of heat in her chest as she pushed the teaspoon back towards a man who was the current Deputy head of the British Ministry of magic, auror department. “Do it yourself; I’m not getting arrested for maiming _the Chosen one_.”

Ginny plopped herself down between them. “Did you see? Was it glorious?”

“No. I refuse to look.” Hermione lied. “Harry did though!”

Harry shot her a venomous look but Ginny meted out retribution faster.

“Ow! Why’d you hit me?” Hermione pouted and rubbed her arm.

“I wasted a drumstick for you.” Was the reply she got.

Hermione snuck a subtle glance towards Malfoy, his back still to her. Blaise and Pansy had joined the games in the adjoining parlour, leaving Narcissa alone with her son. The two seemed to be having a whispered conversation, Draco’s head angled down. Narcissa seemed to say something insistent, tugging at his sleeve. Draco shook his head vigorously in denial only to be countered by his mother’s stern stare.

Narcissa Malfoy’s Valentine’s party would later become quite the popular annual affair for decades to come. Thanks in part to that first event when three unlikely couples were paired off during the evening games, Anthony Goldstein was caught in a closet with Zabini’s mother and Draco Malfoy and Astoria Greengrass had quite a spectacular falling out.

Prophet reporters hounded Hermione for a week afterwards trying to tease out all the salacious gossip.

_Valentine’s Day 2007_

Things were getting out of hand.

Realistically they had been out of hand for nearly a year now.

Hermione was developing a complex; one she was sure was becoming noticeable to her colleagues and to the man at the centre of all her troubles.

She could no longer look Draco Malfoy in the eye.

Every time he was near her, be it in a meeting or while eating lunch, Hermione’s eyes now had a mind of their own and would stray from the safe space of his gaze to his lips, perhaps his shoulders, sometimes his chest and the flavour of this week, the way his slacks stretched tight across a muscled thigh.

Admittedly this particular fixation with one Draco Malfoy’s thighs did bring an added level of difficulty to her perusals given that there was often a table between them but Hermione had gotten quite adept at following behind him while they walked to their various destinations.

There were only a handful of occasions during which she’d had to pretend to fiddle with her bag strap or to have a loose pebble in her shoe in order to avoid suspicion when he shot her a curious glance.

It was with this predicament in mind, that Hermione Granger determined that she would be on her best behaviour as she arrived at Narcissa Malfoy’s now annual Valentine’s event. As soon as she politely could, she slipped from the solarium and went in search of a comfortable alcove Draco had shown her on a previous visit.

Sixth champagne glass in hand, she had to admit her memory of the layout of the immense manor’s floor plans were somewhat questionable.

Though the manor seemed to be deliberately against her also as the hallways were tilting in a horribly nauseating way which made her vision blur.

“Granger.”

A hand on her elbow steadied her and the hallway stopped tilting which was just as well as Hermione was starting to feel the bile rise in her throat. She threw back the remnants of the Champagne flute within her hand in order to swallow it back.

“Granger. Are you lost?”

Hermione tried to straighten, her legs quite rubbery, and squinted up at the tall blond figure still holding her upright.

“Draco!” She hiccupped. “I was looking at you!”

He raised a brow, pulling her to face him and grasped her other elbow. “You mean, you were looking for me?”

Hermione shook her head and groaned, stopping immediately when her vision started to waver again. “I know what I said!” Why were her words so slurred?

There was a prolonged pause in which Hermione stared blearily at the dust motes floating past a glaring puddle of sunshine on the floor next to them. She felt the champagne flute being lifted out of her limp fingers.

“How many of these have you had?”

Hermione shuddered at the deep tenor of his voice. It made her all tingly and ticklish all over which seemed a bit odd. It would surely sound even better if she pressed her ear against the source. But Draco was a tall man, she nodded to herself, it would be hard to reach his mouth from here. She’d have to settle for his chest instead. Press her ear against his shirt…for science

“Granger.”

_Ooo…resonance._

“Granger. Merlin’s balls, you’re completely –”, he paused and pushed her away then proceeded to drag her down the hallway, through a door and into a small parlour. He closed the door with a firm click of the lock. “Granger. What are you doing? You know Skeeter’s and her little protégé Martin are probably skulking around a corner.”

Hermione shook her head to clear her thoughts, but couldn’t quite grasp what she had been anxious about in the first place. “Dunno. Feel funny.”

“Unsurprising, given my mother has somehow gotten it into her head this year to serve elf wine instead of regular champagne.” He waved the flute in his hand. “It has a mild stimulant in it – should fade in the next hour or two, though.”

She nodded as she lowered herself into a seat.

Draco followed suit, choosing the armchair opposite hers.

That was a mistake. Or a godsend.

Every thought emptied from her mind as she watched grey wool stretch over Draco Malfoy’s bent knee, then thigh, then… _oh…oh…oh my…_

Before her mind had even fully engaged, Hermione had launched herself across the coffee table, sending an ornamental glass swan toppling to the floor where it landed with a crack. Hermione could not bring herself to care. She had landed in this heaven sent lap where she could see every crease, fold and bulge that was Draco Malfoy’s seated form.

Between his parted and tense thighs lay what Hermione now considered holy grail territory. Surely, one good detailed inspection would cure her of this illness which seemed to disrupt every aspect of her life.

Without hesitation, she placed a her palm on his clothed thigh and stroked upwards. Merlin, this was better than her imagination! It was all so…hard.

“Fuck!” Draco jolted violently up in his seat, nearly tipping her onto the floor.

Hermione reacted, thighs tightening around his hips, forcing him to stand with her wrapped around him like a clinging vine, her hand trapped in heavenly space between them. Her fingers curled.

Draco let out a shuddering breath. “Granger.” He sounded tense. “Let go.”

Everything inside Hermione revolted at the thought. “No.”

His hands came around her waist and tugged.

Hermione screeched, tightening her grip as she forced a pained grunt from Draco.

“Woman! Are you trying to unman me?” He yelled, his voice ringing in her ears.

“No!” Hermione returned, several pitches higher, like a little girl being told to give back a toy that wasn’t hers. “Five minutes. I need five minutes with it. And then we can be done forever!”

Malfoy let go of her waist to cover his face. He huffed, warm breath stirring the crown of her head. “Five minutes with…with…my…” He fingers swept upwards, combing away a few blond strands that had fallen forward during their tussle. “Granger. Hermione. Please. Think sober thoughts. Is this you or the elf wine?”

Hermione’s fingers squeezed reflexively and Malfoys whole body shuddered beneath her. “Me! All me!”

“Really?”

“Yes!” She insisted, eyes suddenly drawn to the open collar of his crisp white shirt. There was peek of…a shadow of collarbone. Her mouth watered. Did he taste as good as he looked there? She should try, taste it…for science.

Hermione’s mouth parted as she leant forward and…

Draco’s palm landed with smack on her forehead, pushing her head away even as his torso strained backwards to further the distance between them. “Hermione, please don’t do this. I have only so much self-control and I can’t hold you like this until the wine burns out of you system in a few hours.”

“Then given me five minutes!” She insisted, her eyes finally rising to meet his. “Five minutes and then I swear I’ll let you go.”

“I don’t believe you.” Draco leant forward and attempted to dislodge her onto the couch with little success.

“I wouldn’t lie to you, Draco.” She said earnestly, albeit with a very slight slur to her words.

Draco grunted, looking away before meeting her gaze again. Calculation gave way to resignation. “Five minutes or I’ll slip this whole story to Skeeter, you hear me Granger?”

Hermione nodded vigorously. “On Merlin’s beard.”

Draco rolled his eyes as he lowered them to the rug, pushing aside the coffee table to allow for extra room and kicking away the remnants of the broken glass swan. Warily, as if dealing with a wild animal, he gestured for her to proceed.

“Lie back.” She sat up and pushed at his chest.

He huffed in protest. “Granger!”

“Malfoy! It is imt-impt-impot…it is vital that you let me do this properly.” She tried to look as serious as she could.

“Fuck.” He slouched onto the rug, head landing with a dull thud.

“Hands behind your head.” She insisted.

He shot her a suspicious glance but followed suit, setting a timer on his wand. “You five minutes start now, Granger.”

As if jolted, Hermione let go, untucking her legs as she scrabbled back, feasting her eyes on the area that her hand had warmed for the entirety of their conversation. In this position, the bulge was quite distinct and as she angled her head, side to side, inspecting it, it grew more prominent and quite…tented.

She gave in to the urge and touched it again. Her fingers moulded the grey fabric around it, tried to discern its true shape and texture and feel…

“Granger, fuck. You –”

Hermione flicked a button open and hooked the zipper down. She reached in.

Hands snapped around her wrist. “Granger. Don’t you dare.” His eyes were burning in the afternoon sunlight.

Hermione unashamedly met his grey with her brown. “You said five minutes.”

They stared at each other until Draco relented, letting go and dropping back again. He clasped his hands in front of his eyes instead this time.

Hermione’s hands resumed their course, tugging aside grey wool and cotton jocks until the object of her fascination sprung up, free at last.

“Cock.” She heard herself utter, almost reverent, tongue to her palate like the word needed to be licked before exiting her mouth.

Draco groaned.

She paid him no mind, all her focus much lower than his mouth. He was darker here, skin more dusky, veins ran its length, disappearing into a wiry nest of ash-blond hair.

Her fingers met skin. She whimpered. It was so hot without the barrier of his clothing. Her fingers tightened of their own accord, stroking upwards until…moisture beaded at its tip.

Hermione’s body answered in accord, warm liquid rush between her thighs and ears awash in her own pulse.

“Want.” She gasped as she released him and darted forward just as Draco moved his hands from his eyes, reaching up to slow her forward momentum. His hands landed atop her shoulders, inadvertently supporting her weight while Hermione’s hands scrambled clumsily beneath her, rucking up her skirt to her waist and pushing aside the flimsy lace which covered her.

She planted herself squarely on his cock, landing on her clit and gasping in broken breaths as pleasure shot up her spine. _Yes._ _Eureka. Struck gold._

She heard Draco curse beneath her, his hands grabbing handfuls of her skirt, forcing her into stillness when all she could think of doing was lifting up and aiming for home.

“No.” He gritted out. “You are not sober.”

Hermione nearly burst into tears in frustration, wriggling in the little space he allowed her. “I don’t care.”

“I care.” He returned, words rushed on top of hers.

He refused to budge, allowing her only the smallest of movements, her skirts trapping her even as heat built in her pussy until she had worked herself into a frenzy atop him.

His wand buzzed, signalling an end to their time.

She did sob now, achy and so unsatisfied.

Draco hushed her, making no move to push her off. He cradled her face in the crook of his neck, allowing her to continue to writhe on top of him until her body tensed and starbursts blinded her.

Hermione went limp in his embrace. Eyes closed, lips parted, finally body and curiosity satiated.

She woke hours later, on the rug, mouth as dry as a desert. The sun had set outside the window and faint moonlight flooded through onto the floor. As she craned her head carefully around, she saw that someone had lit a small fire in the hearth and that the rug seemed to have been cleared of furniture bar a few throw cushions.

And there was a hard arm, wrapped around her middle.

“Awake at last.” Draco drawled into her ear.

Hermione nodded tentatively.

“Thinking clearly?”

Hermione squeaked as memories assaulted her. _Fuck._ “Malfoy.” She tried to sit up, tried to move away. The arm around her failed to budge.

“Malfoy, I am so, so sorry. I don’t know…I mean, that is to say…” She took a gulping breath, heart in her throat. “Oh Merlin, I’m sorry I groped you!”

The arm lifted and Hermione bolted away, turning to face him.

It took all her Gryffindor courage to lift her eyes to his face.

He stared at her, eyes sweeping her distressed expression and her dishevelled state. “I’ll let you make it up to me.” He said at last.

Eyes watering as she pictured a dank cell in Azkaban, Hermione bottom lip trembled. “What? How?”

Draco’s eyes dropped from hers, running down her form. “Strip.”

_Valentine’s Day 2008_

“For science.” He grunted around her nipple, even as Hermione tugged at his hair.

She writhed in his firm grasp, barely managing coherent speech at this point. “You don’t even know what science is!”

Teeth pulled at her. “Sure I do; like muggle potions. Experimentation for the good of mankind.”

Hermione tried to pull away again. “Is this meant to be for the good for mankind in some way?”

Draco kissed his way up her neck, aiming for her lips as he pulled her thighs around his hips. “It’s for the good of my mankind.”

“Draco, that is not a thing!” Hermione lost her train of thought as fingers brushed against her core. “That, that is to say…”

“Mmm…” He captured her lips, humming into their kiss.

Hermione turned her head, disengaging their lips. “We can experiment for the good of mankind later. But first we have to get married!”

Draco whined into her hair, “I’m trying to do that!”

Hermione pushed back against his shoulders, trying to the catch the breath he had stolen from her. “How? How is this part of the ceremony?”

“Well I can’t very well stand in front of all those people with my cock at full attention, now can I? And since it’s all your fault, you have to help me with it before I go out there!”

“Whose fault is that? I told you it was bad luck to see the bride before the wedding!”

“Is it my fault you had to wear this non-existant, see through wedding dress?”

“It’s off-the-shoulder! It is not non-existant!” She hissed. “And your mother likes it.”

“Well the damage has been done.” He pouted at her. “I didn’t even get to fall asleep with my cock inside you last night. You know I can’t sleep without it.”

Hermione half snorted, half laughed. “God, you’re awful. Fine. Hurry up. And don’t crease the dress!”

Draco grunted as he pushed inside her, immediately setting a punishing pace, curses and praise whispered into her ear.

Hermione relished the burning stretch and then the overwhelming friction. She muffled a moan even as she heard footsteps approach the doors of the bridal room.

“Hermione dear, have you seen Draco? He needs to take his place soon.” Jean Granger was just on the other side of the door!

“Umm…” Hermione tried to answer but squeaked instead when Draco angled his cock in the way he knew she liked. “He went to check on his…parents! I think!”

“No,” came Jean’s puzzled answer. “I saw Cissa and Lucius already seated. Do you need help with the dress, dear? You seem out of breath.”

“No!” Hermione bit back a shuddering moan. “Don’t come in! I’m nearly there – I mean, nearly done – ugh – I mean…”

There was a pause.

Draco chuckled in her hear even as he licked the shell of it.

“Smooth, Granger.”

Jean laughed behind the door. “Oh, I see. Well, send Draco out when you’re done, dear.” Clicking footsteps moved away from the door.

“Oh god.” Waves of sharp pleasure mixed with Hermione mortification. “Damn you, Malfoy.”

Fingers on her clit answered her curses, rubbing and circling until Hermione had forgotten her anger and she was tensing around him, coming and writhing atop him, while he flooded her with hot seed.

His hips were still jerking when Hermione’s thighs started sliding down, now too weak to hold on or support her own weight. “How am I meant to walk down the aisle like this?” She swatted his shoulder as he righted her against the wall.

“Bow-legged, I would imagine.”

Hermione mustered the energy to glare. “Why am I marrying you?”

“It’s you tradition. You like to get married on Valentine’s day like a plebeian. I’m just accommodating your urges. You know, for science.”

She took in his wicked smile and his mussed hair. “And because I love you.”

Draco’s expression turned wistful. “You have no idea how much I wanted to hear those words today. Especially after…after the last time we were in this situation.” He tenderly brushed a lock of hair back behind her ear. “I think I must’ve pictured this a million times in my head, dreamt about it, cursed myself for it. But now…now I can have it for real.”

Hermione let the tears flood her eyes and run down her cheeks, makeup be damned, “I love you, Draco. Thank you for waiting for me.”

“You’re welcome.” Draco straightened, looking away with a wet sniff. “I’m a saint, I know.” His eyes drifted back to her, returning her smile playfully. “Love you, Mrs Malfoy, let’s go get married.”

_P.S._

_DRACO MALFOY’S LIST OF WHY HERMIONE SHOULD DIVORCE THE WEASEL_

  1. _Acting like a fucking man child. Is Hermione your mum or what?_
  2. _Act like a pig, live in a sty_
  3. _Poverty doesn’t suit Granger_
  4. _He wore white after Labour day; Granger tells me that is a muggle crime_
  5. _He roots for the Cannons, proof of low IQ_
  6. _He loves his stupid broom more than he loves his wife_
  7. _He forgot her birthday twice (that Hermione will admit to)_
  8. _He’s probably carrying on a torrid affair with Potter_
  9. _He thinks her middle name is Jane_
  10. _He wants to name their firstborn, Hugo, ugh_
  11. _He’s by far, the least interesting Weasley, and that list includes the whatshisface pompous one that worked for Fudge_
  12. _Speaking of Ministers of Magic, Hermione will be the youngest one yet in the next decade, is she going to take that thing to state dinners? Is she really?_
  13. _He probably expects her to have 10 kids for him…where will the Minister of Magic get that sort of time?_
  14. _He once asked Granger’s dad if a British Pound really weighed a pound_
  15. _He’s dumb as a doorknob._
  16. _He’s an orange fucking Weasel_
  17. _When he’s angry, he blames her for everything. And his face gets all scrunchy like he’s busting for a poo_
  18. _He makes her feel guilty for seeing her friends, tells her she’s neglecting him. What? No friends of your own?_
  19. _Irreconcilable differences (That’s what the muggles write – that’s a nice way to say I fucking hate your guts you bumbling twat)_
  20. _Eat shit Weasel_
  21. _Can’t keep it up, eh Weasel? Let me play you a little sad song on this tiny violin_
  22. _He just doesn’t deserve her_
  23. _~~I deserve her~~_
  24. _~~I don’t~~_
  25. _~~But I love her~~_




End file.
